The Spectator, Volumes 1, 2 and 3 With Translations and Index for the Series

The Spectator, Volume 1

The Spectator Papers: Volume 1 (Everyman's Library)

The Spectator, Volume 1

The Spectator, Volume 1

The Spectator: Volume 1

The Spectator, Volume 1, Part 1

The Spectator, Volume 1, Part II

Wings of an Eagle, that I might fly away to those happy Seats; but the Genius told me there was no Passage to them, except through the Gates of Death that I saw opening every Moment upon the Bridge. The Islands, said he, that lie so fresh and green before thee, and with which the whole Face of the Ocean appears spotted as far as thou canst see, are more in Number than the Sands on the Sea-shore; there are Myriads of Islands behind those which thou here discoverest, reaching further than thine Eye, or even thine Imagination can extend it self. These are the Mansions of good Men after Death, who according to the Degree and Kinds of Virtue in which they excelled, are distributed among these several Islands, which abound with Pleasures of different Kinds and Degrees, suitable to the Relishes and Perfections of those who are settled in them; every Island is a Paradise accommodated to its respective Inhabitants. Are not these, O _Mirzah_, Habitations worth contending for? Does Life appear miserable, that gives thee Opportunities of earning such a Reward? Is Death to be feared, that will convey thee to so happy an Existence? Think not Man was made in vain, who has such an Eternity reserved for him. I gazed with inexpressible Pleasure on these happy Islands. At length, said I, shew me now, I beseech thee, the Secrets that lie hid under those dark Clouds which cover the Ocean on the other side of the Rock of Adamant. The Genius making me no Answer, I turned about to address myself to him a second time, but I found that he had left me; I then turned again to the Vision which I had been so long contemplating; but Instead of the rolling Tide, the arched Bridge, and the happy Islands, I saw nothing but the long hollow Valley of _Bagdat_, with Oxen, Sheep, and Camels grazing upon the Sides of it.

_The End of the first Vision of Mirzah_.

C.

[Footnote 1: "have been laid for them", corrected by an erratum in No.161.]

There is no Character more frequently given to a Writer, than that ofbeing a Genius. I have heard many a little Sonneteer called a _fineGenius_. There is not an Heroick Scribler in the Nation, that has nothis Admirers who think him a _great Genius_; and as for your Smatterersin Tragedy, there is scarce a Man among them who is not cried up by oneor other for a _prodigious Genius_.

My design in this Paper is to consider what is properly a great Genius,and to throw some Thoughts together on so uncommon a Subject.

Among great Genius's those few draw the Admiration of all the World uponthem, and stand up as the Prodigies of Mankind, who by the meer Strengthof natural Parts, and without any Assistance of Arts or Learning, haveproduced Works that were the Delight of their own Times, and the Wonderof Posterity. There appears something nobly wild and extravagant inthese great natural Genius's, that is infinitely more beautiful than allthe Turn and Polishing of what the _French_ call a _Bel Esprit_, bywhich they would express a Genius refined by Conversation, Reflection,and the Reading of the most polite Authors. The greatest Genius [which[1]] runs through the Arts and Sciences, takes a kind of Tincture fromthem, and falls unavoidably into Imitation.

Many of these great natural Genius's that were never disciplined andbroken by Rules of Art, are to be found among the Ancients, and inparticular among those of the more Eastern Parts of the World. _Homer_has innumerable Flights that _Virgil_ was not able to reach, and in theOld Testament we find several Passages more elevated and sublime thanany in _Homer_. At the same time that we allow a greater and more daringGenius to the Ancients, we must own that the greatest of them very muchfailed in, or, if you will, that they were very much above the Nicetyand Correctness of the Moderns. In their Similitudes and Allusions,provided there was a Likeness, they did not much trouble themselvesabout the Decency of the Comparison: Thus _Solomon_ resembles the Noseof his Beloved to the Tower of _Libanon_ which looketh toward_Damascus_; as the Coming of a Thief in the Night, is a Similitude ofthe same kind in the New Testament. It would be endless to makeCollections of this Nature; _Homer_ illustrates one of his Heroesencompassed with the Enemy by an Ass in a Field of Corn that has hisSides belaboured by all the Boys of the Village without stirring a Footfor it: and another of them tossing to and fro in his Bed and burningwith Resentment, to a Piece of Flesh broiled on the Coals. Thisparticular Failure in the Ancients, opens a large Field of Raillery tothe little Wits, who can laugh at an Indecency but not relish theSublime in these Sorts of Writings. The present Emperor of _Persia_,conformable to this Eastern way of Thinking, amidst a great many pompousTitles, denominates himself The Sun of Glory and the Nutmeg of Delight.In short, to cut off all Cavilling against the Ancients and particularlythose of the warmer Climates who had most Heat and Life in theirImaginations, we are to consider that the Rule of observing what the_French_ call the _Bienseance_ in an Allusion, has been found out oflatter Years, and in the colder Regions of the World; where we wouldmake some Amends for our want of Force and Spirit, by a scrupulousNicety and Exactness in our Compositions.

Our Countryman _Shakespear_ was a remarkable Instance of this first kindof great Genius's.

I cannot quit this Head without observing that _Pindar_ was a greatGenius of the first Class, who was hurried on by a natural Fire andImpetuosity to vast Conceptions of things and noble Sallies ofImagination. At the same time, can any thing be more ridiculous than forMen of a sober and moderate Fancy to imitate this Poet's Way of Writingin those monstrous Compositions which go among us under the Name ofPindaricks? When I see People copying Works which, as _Horace_ hasrepresented them, are singular in their Kind, and inimitable; when I seeMen following Irregularities by Rule, and by the little Tricks of Artstraining after the most unbounded Flights of Nature, I cannot but applyto them that Passage in _Terence_:

In short a modern Pindarick Writer, compared with _Pindar_, is like aSister among the Camisars [2] compared with _Virgil_'s Sibyl: There isthe Distortion, Grimace, and outward Figure, but nothing of that divineImpulse which raises the Mind above its self, and makes the Sounds morethan human.

[There is another kind of great Genius's which I shall place in a secondClass, not as I think them inferior to the first, but only forDistinction's sake, as they are of a different kind. This [3]] secondClass of great Genius's are those that have formed themselves by Rules,and submitted the Greatness of their natural Talents to the Correctionsand Restraints of Art. Such among the _Greeks_ were _Plato_ and_Aristotle_; among the _Romans_, _Virgil_ and _Tully_; among the_English_, _Milton_ and Sir _Francis Bacon_.

[4] The Genius in both these Classes of Authors may be equally great,but shews itself [after [5]] a different Manner. In the first it is likea rich Soil in a happy Climate, that produces a whole Wilderness ofnoble Plants rising in a thousand beautiful Landskips, without anycertain Order or Regularity. In the other it is the same rich Soil underthe same happy Climate, that has been laid out in Walks and Parterres,and cut into Shape and Beauty by the Skill of the Gardener.

The great Danger in these latter kind of Genius's, is, lest they cramptheir own Abilities too much by Imitation, and form themselvesaltogether upon Models, without giving the full Play to their ownnatural Parts. An Imitation of the best Authors is not to compare with agood Original; and I believe we may observe that very few Writers makean extraordinary Figure in the World, who have not something in theirWay of thinking or expressing themselves that is peculiar to them, andentirely their own.

[6] It is odd to consider what great Genius's are sometimes thrown awayupon Trifles.

I once saw a Shepherd, says a famous _Italian_ Author, [who [7]] used todivert himself in his Solitudes with tossing up Eggs and catching themagain without breaking them: In which he had arrived to so great adegree of Perfection, that he would keep up four at a time for severalMinutes together playing in the Air, and falling into his Hand by Turns.I think, says the Author, I never saw a greater Severity than in thisMan's Face; for by his wonderful Perseverance and Application, he hadcontracted the Seriousness and Gravity of a Privy-Councillor; and Icould not but reflect with my self, that the same Assiduity andAttention, had they been rightly applied, might have made him a greaterMathematician than _Archimedes_.

C.

[Footnote 1: that]

[Footnote 2: The Camisars, or French Prophets, originally from theCevennes, came into England in 1707. With violent agitations anddistortions of body they prophesied and claimed also the power to workmiracles; even venturing to prophesy that Dr Ernes, a convert of theirs,should rise from the dead five months after burial.]

I am glad that my late going into the Country has encreased the Numberof my Correspondents, one of whom sends me the following Letter.

_SIR_,

'Though you are pleased to retire from us so soon into the City, I hope you will not think the Affairs of the Country altogether unworthy of your Inspection for the future. I had the Honour of seeing your short Face at Sir ROGER DE COVERLEY'S, and have ever since thought your Person and Writings both extraordinary. Had you stayed there a few Days longer you would have seen a Country _Wake_, which you know in most Parts of _England_ is the _Eve-Feast of the Dedication of our Churches_. I was last Week at one of these Assemblies which was held in a neighbouring Parish; where I found their _Green_ covered with a promiscuous Multitude of all Ages and both Sexes, who esteem one another more or less the following Part of the Year according as they distinguish themselves at this Time. The whole Company were in their Holiday Cloaths, and divided into several Parties, all of them endeavouring to shew themselves in those Exercises wherein they excelled, and to gain the Approbation of the Lookers on.

I found a Ring of Cudgel-Players, who were breaking one another's Heads in order to make some Impression on their Mistresses Hearts. I observed a lusty young Fellow, who had the Misfortune of a broken Pate; but what considerably added to the Anguish of the Wound, was his over-hearing an old Man, who shook his Head and said, _That he questioned now if black Kate would marry him these three Years_. I was diverted from a farther Observation of these Combatants, by a Foot-ball Match, which was on the other side of the _Green_; where _Tom Short_ behaved himself so well, that most People seemed to agree _it was impossible that he should remain a Batchelor till the next Wake_. Having played many a Match my self, I could have looked longer on this Sport, had I not observed a Country Girl, who was posted on an Eminence at some Distance from me, and was making so many odd Grimaces, and writhing and distorting her whole Body in so strange a Manner, as made me very desirous to know the Meaning of it. Upon my coming up to her, I found that she was overlooking a Ring of Wrestlers, and that her Sweetheart, a Person of small Stature, was contending with an huge brawny Fellow, who twirled him about, and shook the little Man so violently, that by a secret Sympathy of Hearts it produced all those Agitations in the Person of his Mistress, who I dare say, like _Caelia_ in _Shakespear_ on the same Occasion, could have _wished herself invisible to catch the strong Fellow by the Leg_. The Squire of the Parish treats the whole Company every Year with a Hogshead of Ale; and proposes a _Beaver-Hat_ as a Recompense to him who gives most _Falls_. This has raised such a Spirit of Emulation in the Youth of the Place, that some of them have rendered themselves very expert at this Exercise; and I was often surmised to see a Fellow's Heels fly up, by a Trip which was given him so smartly that I could scarce discern it. I found that the old Wrestlers seldom entered the Ring, till some one was grown formidable by having thrown two or three of his Opponents; but kept themselves as it were in a reserved Body to defend the Hat, which is always hung up by the Person who gets it in one of the most Conspicuous Parts of the House, and looked upon by the whole Family as something redounding much more to their Honour than a Coat of Arms. There was a Fellow who was so busy in regulating all the Ceremonies, and seemed to carry such an Air of Importance in his Looks, that I could not help inquiring who he was, and was immediately answered, _That he did not value himself upon nothing, for that he and his Ancestors had won so many Hats, that his Parlour looked like a Haberdashers Shop:_ However this Thirst of Glory in them all, was the Reason that no one Man stood _Lord of the Ring_ for above three _Falls_ while I was amongst them.

The young Maids, who were not Lookers on at these Exercises, were themselves engaged in some Diversion; and upon my asking a Farmer's Son of my own Parish what he was gazing at with so much Attention, he told me, _That he was seeing_ Betty Welch, whom I knew to be his Sweet-Heart, _pitch a Bar_.

In short, I found the men endeavoured to shew the Women they were no Cowards, and that the whole Company strived to recommend themselves to each other, by making it appear that they were all in a perfect State of Health, and fit to undergo any Fatigues of bodily Labour.

Your Judgment upon this Method of _Love_ and _Gallantry_, as it is at present practised amongst us in the Country, will very much oblige,

_SIR, Yours_, &c.'

If I would here put on the Scholar and Politician, I might inform myReaders how these bodily Exercises or Games were formerly encouraged inall the Commonwealths of _Greece_; from whence the _Romans_ afterwardsborrowed their _Pentathlum_, which was composed of _Running, Wrestling,Leaping, Throwing_, and _Boxing_, tho' the Prizes were generally nothingbut a Crown of Cypress or Parsley, Hats not being in fashion in thoseDays: That there is an old Statute, which obliges every Man in_England_, having such an Estate, to keep and exercise the long Bow; bywhich Means our Ancestors excelled all other Nations in the Use of thatWeapon, and we had all the real Advantages, without the Inconvenience ofa standing Army: And that I once met with a Book of Projects, in whichthe Author considering to what noble Ends that Spirit of Emulation,which so remarkably shews it self among our common People in theseWakes, might be directed, proposes that for the Improvement of all ourhandicraft Trades there should be annual Prizes set up for such Personsas were most excellent in their several Arts. But laying aside all thesepolitical Considerations, which might tempt me to pass the Limits of myPaper, I confess the greatest Benefit and Convenience that I can observein these Country Festivals, is the bringing young People together, andgiving them an Opportunity of shewing themselves in the mostadvantageous Light. A Country Fellow that throws his Rival upon hisBack, has generally as good Success with their common Mistress; asnothing is more usual than for a nimble-footed Wench to get a Husband atthe same time she wins a Smock. Love and Marriages are the naturalEffects of these anniversary Assemblies. I must therefore very muchapprove the Method by which my Correspondent tells me each Sexendeavours to recommend it self to the other, since nothing seems morelikely to promise a healthy Offspring or a happy Cohabitation. And Ibelieve I may assure my Country Friend, that there has been many a CourtLady who would be contented to exchange her crazy young Husband for _TomShort_, and several Men of Quality who would have parted with a tenderYoke-fellow for _Black Kate_.

I am the more pleased with having _Love_ made the principal End andDesign of these Meetings, as it seems to be most agreeable to the Intentfor which they were at first instituted, as we are informed by thelearned Dr. _Kennet_, [1] with whose Words I shall conclude my presentPaper.

_These Wakes_, says he, _were in Imitation of the ancient [Greek: agapai], or Love-Feasts; and were first established in_ England _by Pope_ Gregory _the Great, who in an Epistle to_ Melitus _the Abbot gave Order that they should be kept in Sheds or Arbories made up with Branches and Boughs of Trees round the Church_.

He adds,

_That this laudable Custom of Wakes prevailed for many Ages, till the nice Puritans began to exclaim against it as a Remnant of Popery; and by degrees the precise Humour grew so popular, that at an_ Exeter _Assizes the Lord Chief Baron_ Walter _made an Order for the Suppression of all Wakes; but on Bishop_ Laud's _complaining of this innovating Humour, the King commanded the Order to be reversed_.

Nothing that is not a real Crime makes a Man appear so contemptible andlittle in the Eyes of the World as Inconstancy, especially when itregards Religion or Party. In either of these Cases, tho' a Man perhapsdoes but his Duty in changing his Side, he not only makes himself hatedby those he left, but is seldom heartily esteemed by those he comes overto.

In these great Articles of Life, therefore, a Man's Conviction ought tobe very strong, and if possible so well timed that worldly Advantagesmay seem to have no Share in it, or Mankind will be ill natured enoughto think he does not change Sides out of Principle, but either out ofLevity of Temper or Prospects of Interest. Converts and Renegadoes ofall Kinds should take particular care to let the World see they act uponhonourable Motives; or whatever Approbations they may receive fromthemselves, and Applauses from those they converse with, they may bevery well assured that they are the Scorn of all good Men, and thepublick Marks of Infamy and Derision.

Irresolution on the Schemes of Life [which [1]] offer themselves to ourChoice, and Inconstancy in pursuing them, are the greatest and mostuniversal Causes of all our Disquiet and Unhappiness. When [Ambition[2]] pulls one Way, Interest another, Inclination a third, and perhapsReason contrary to all, a Man is likely to pass his Time but ill who hasso many different Parties to please. When the Mind hovers among such aVariety of Allurements, one had better settle on a Way of Life that isnot the very best we might have chosen, than grow old withoutdetermining our Choice, and go out of the World as the greatest Part ofMankind do, before we have resolved how to live in it. There is but oneMethod of setting our selves at Rest in this Particular, and that is byadhering stedfastly to one great End as the chief and ultimate Aim ofall our Pursuits. If we are firmly resolved to live up to the Dictatesof Reason, without any Regard to Wealth, Reputation, or the likeConsiderations, any more than as they fall in with our principal Design,we may go through Life with Steadiness and Pleasure; but if we act byseveral broken Views, and will not only be virtuous, but wealthy,popular, and every thing that has a Value set upon it by the World, weshall live and die in Misery and Repentance.

One would take more than ordinary Care to guard ones self against thisparticular Imperfection, because it is that which our Nature verystrongly inclines us to; for if we examine ourselves throughly, we shallfind that we are the most changeable Beings in the Universe. In respectof our Understanding, we often embrace and reject the very sameOpinions; whereas Beings above and beneath us have probably no Opinionsat all, or at least no Wavering and Uncertainties in those they have.Our Superiors are guided by Intuition, and our Inferiors by Instinct. Inrespect of our Wills, we fall into Crimes and recover out of them, areamiable or odious in the Eyes of our great Judge, and pass our wholeLife in offending and asking Pardon. On the contrary, the Beingsunderneath us are not capable of sinning, nor those above us ofrepenting. The one is out of the Possibilities of Duty, and the otherfixed in an eternal Course of Sin, or an eternal Course of Virtue.

There is scarce a State of Life, or Stage in it which does not produceChanges and Revolutions in the Mind of Man. Our Schemes of Thought inInfancy are lost in those of Youth; these too take a different Turn inManhood, till old Age often leads us back into our former Infancy. A newTitle or an unexpected Success throws us out of ourselves, and in amanner destroys our Identity. A cloudy Day, or a little Sunshine, haveas great an Influence on many Constitutions, as the most real Blessingsor Misfortunes. A Dream varies our Being, and changes our Conditionwhile it lasts; and every Passion, not to mention Health and Sickness,and the greater Alterations in Body and Mind, makes us appear almostdifferent Creatures. If a Man is so distinguished among other Beings bythis Infirmity, what can we think of such as make themselves remarkablefor it even among their own Species? It is a very trifling Character tobe one of the most variable Beings of the most variable Kind, especiallyif we consider that He who is the great Standard of Perfection has inhim no Shadow of Change, but is the same Yesterday, To-day, and forever.

As this Mutability of Temper and Inconsistency with our selves is thegreatest Weakness of human Nature, so it makes the Person who isremarkable for it in a very particular Manner more ridiculous than anyother Infirmity whatsoever, as it sets him in a greater Variety offoolish Lights, and distinguishes him from himself by an Opposition ofparty-coloured Characters. The most humourous Character in _Horace_ isfounded upon this Unevenness of Temper and Irregularity of Conduct.

Instead of translating this Passage in _Horace_, I shall entertain my_English_ Reader with the Description of a Parallel Character, that iswonderfully well finished by Mr. _Dryden_ [3], and raised upon the sameFoundation.

'In the first Rank of these did_ Zimri _stand: A Man so various, that he seem'd to be Not one, but all Mankind's Epitome. Stiff in Opinions, always in the wrong; Was ev'ry thing by Starts, and nothing long; But, in the Course of one revolving Moon, Was Chemist, Fidler, Statesman, and Buffoon: Then all for Women, Painting, Rhiming, Drinking: Besides ten thousand Freaks that dy'd in thinking. Blest Madman, who cou'd ev'ry flour employ, With something New to wish, or to enjoy!'

C.

[Footnote 1: that]

[Footnote 2: Honour]

[Footnote 3: In his 'Absalom and Achitophel.' The character of Villiers,Duke of Buckingham.]

Enquiries after Happiness, and Rules for attaining it, are not sonecessary and useful to Mankind as the Arts of Consolation, andsupporting [ones [1]] self under Affliction. The utmost we can hope forin this World is Contentment; if we aim at any thing higher, we shallmeet with nothing but Grief and Disappointments. A Man should direct allhis Studies and Endeavours at making himself easie now, and happyhereafter.

The Truth of it is, if all the Happiness that is dispersed through thewhole Race of Mankind in this World were drawn together, and put intothe Possession of any single Man, it would not make a very happy Being.Though on the contrary, if the Miseries of the whole Species were fixedin a single Person, they would make a very miserable one.

I am engaged in this Subject by the following Letter, which, thoughsubscribed by a fictitious Name, I have reason to believe is notImaginary.

_Mr_. SPECTATOR, [2]

'I am one of your Disciples, and endeavour to live up to your Rules, which I hope will incline you to pity my Condition: I shall open it to you in a very few Words. About three Years since a Gentleman, whom, I am sure, you yourself would have approved, made his Addresses to me. He had every thing to recommend him but an Estate, so that my Friends, who all of them applauded his Person, would not for the sake of both of us favour his Passion. For my own part, I resigned my self up entirely to the Direction of those who knew the World much better than my self, but still lived in hopes that some Juncture or other would make me happy in the Man, whom, in my Heart, I preferred to all the World; being determined if I could not have him, to have no Body else. About three Months ago I received a Letter from him, acquainting me, that by the Death of an Uncle he had a considerable Estate left him, which he said was welcome to him upon no other Account, but as he hoped it would remove all Difficulties that lay in the Way to our mutual Happiness. You may well suppose, Sir, with how much Joy I received this Letter, which was followed by several others filled with those Expressions of Love and Joy, which I verily believe no Body felt more sincerely, nor knew better how to describe than the Gentleman I am speaking of. But Sir, how shall I be able to tell it you! by the last Week's Post I received a letter from an intimate Friend of this unhappy Gentleman, acquainting me, that as he had just settled his Affairs, and was preparing for his Journey, he fell sick of a Fever and died. It is impossible to express to you the Distress I am in upon this Occasion. I can only have Recourse to my Devotions; and to the reading of good Books for my Consolation; and as I always take a particular Delight in those frequent Advices and Admonitions which you give to the Publick, it would be a very great piece of Charity in you to lend me your Assistance in this Conjuncture. If after the reading of this Letter you find your self in a Humour, rather to Rally and Ridicule, than to Comfort me, I desire you would throw it into the Fire, and think no more of it; but if you are touched with my Misfortune, which is greater than I know how to bear, your Counsels may very much Support, and will infinitely Oblige the afflicted _LEONORA_.'

A Disappointment in Love is more hard to get over than any other; thePassion itself so softens and subdues the Heart, that it disables itfrom struggling or bearing up against the Woes and Distresses whichbefal it. The Mind meets with other Misfortunes in her whole Strength;she stands collected within her self, and sustains the Shock with allthe Force [which [3]] is natural to her; but a Heart in Love has itsFoundations sapped, and immediately sinks under the Weight of Accidentsthat are disagreeable to its Favourite Passion.

In Afflictions Men generally draw their Consolations out of Books ofMorality, which indeed are of great use to fortifie and strengthen theMind against the Impressions of Sorrow. Monsieur St. _Evremont_, whodoes not approve of this Method, recommends Authors [who [4]] are apt tostir up Mirth in the Mind of the Readers, and fancies _Don Quixote_ cangive more Relief to an heavy Heart than _Plutarch_ or _Seneca_, as it ismuch easier to divert Grief than to conquer it. This doubtless may haveits Effects on some Tempers. I should rather have recourse to Authors ofa quite contrary kind, that give us Instances of Calamities andMisfortunes, and shew Human Nature in its greatest Distresses.

If the Affliction we groan under be very heavy, we shall find someConsolation in the Society of as great Sufferers as our selves,especially when we find our Companions Men of Virtue and Merit. If ourAfflictions are light, we shall be comforted by the Comparison we makebetween our selves and our Fellow Sufferers. A Loss at Sea, a Fit ofSickness, or the Death of a Friend, are such Trifles when we considerwhole Kingdoms laid in Ashes, Families put to the Sword, Wretches shutup in Dungeons, and the like Calamities of Mankind, that we are out ofCountenance for our own Weakness, if we sink under such little Stroaksof Fortune.

Let the Disconsolate _Leonora_ consider, that at the very time in whichshe languishes for the Loss of her deceased Lover, there are Persons inseveral Parts of the World just perishing in a Shipwreck; others cryingout for Mercy in the Terrors of a Death-bed Repentance; others lyingunder the Tortures of an Infamous Execution, or the like dreadfulCalamities; and she will find her Sorrows vanish at the Appearance ofthose which are so much greater and more astonishing.

I would further propose to the Consideration of my afflicted Disciple,that possibly what she now looks upon as the greatest Misfortune, is notreally such in it self. For my own part, I question not but our Souls ina separate State will look back on their Lives in quite another View,than what they had of them in the Body; and that what they now consideras Misfortunes and Disappointments, will very often appear to have beenEscapes and Blessings.

The Mind that hath any Cast towards Devotion, naturally flies to it inits Afflictions.

Whon I was in _France_ I heard a very remarkable Story of two Lovers,which I shall relate at length in my to-Morrow's Paper, not only becausethe Circumstances of it are extraordinary, but because it may serve asan Illustration to all that can be said on this last Head, and shew thePower of Religion in abating that particular Anguish which seems to lieso heavy on _Leonora_. The Story was told me by a Priest, as I travelledwith him in a Stage-Coach. I shall give it my Reader as well as I canremember, in his own Words, after having premised, that if Consolationsmay be drawn from a wrong Religion and a misguided Devotion, they cannotbut flow much more naturally from those which are founded upon Reason,and established in good Sense.

L.

[Footnote 1: one]

[Footnote 2: This letter is by Miss Shepheard, the 'Parthenia' of No.140.]

CONSTANTIA was a Woman of extraordinary Wit and Beauty, but very unhappyin a Father, who having arrived at great Riches by his own Industry,took delight in nothing but his Money. _Theodosius_ was the younger Sonof a decayed Family of great Parts and Learning, improved by a genteeland vertuous Education. When he was in the twentieth year of his Age hebecame acquainted with _Constantia_, who had not then passed herfifteenth. As he lived but a few Miles Distance from her Father's House,he had frequent opportunities of seeing her; and by the Advantages of agood Person and a pleasing Conversation, made such an Impression in herHeart as it was impossible for time to [efface [1]]: He was himself noless smitten with _Constantia_. A long Acquaintance made them stilldiscover new Beauties in each other, and by Degrees raised in them thatmutual Passion which had an Influence on their following Lives. Itunfortunately happened, that in the midst of this intercourse of Loveand Friendship between _Theodosius_ and _Constantia_, there broke out anirreparable Quarrel between their Parents, the one valuing himself toomuch upon his Birth, and the other upon his Possessions. The Father of_Constantia_ was so incensed at the Father of _Theodosius_, that hecontracted an unreasonable Aversion towards his Son, insomuch that heforbad him his House, and charged his Daughter upon her Duty never tosee him more. In the mean time to break off all Communication betweenthe two Lovers, who he knew entertained secret Hopes of some favourableOpportunity that should bring them together, he found out a youngGentleman of a good Fortune and an agreeable Person, whom he pitchedupon as a Husband for his Daughter. He soon concerted this Affair sowell, that he told _Constantia_ it was his Design to marry her to such aGentleman, and that her Wedding should be celebrated on such a Day._Constantia_, who was over-awed with the Authority of her Father, andunable to object anything against so advantageous a Match, received theProposal with a profound Silence, which her Father commended in her, asthe most decent manner of a Virgin's giving her Consent to an Overtureof that Kind: The Noise of this intended Marriage soon reached_Theodosius_, who, after a long Tumult of Passions which naturally risein a Lover's Heart on such an Occasion, writ the following letter to_Constantia_.

'The Thought of my _Constantia_, which for some years has been my only Happiness, is now become a greater Torment to me than I am able to bear. Must I then live to see you another's? The Streams, the Fields and Meadows, where we have so often talked together, grow painful to me; Life it self is become a Burden. May you long be happy in the World, but forget that there was ever such a Man in it as _THEODOSIUS_.'

This Letter was conveyed to _Constantia_ that very Evening, who faintedat the Reading of it; and the next Morning she was much more alarmed bytwo or three Messengers, that came to her Father's House one afteranother to inquire if they had heard any thing of _Theodosius_, who itseems had left his Chamber about Midnight, and could nowhere be found.The deep Melancholy, which had hung upon his Mind some Time before, madethem apprehend the worst that could befall him. _Constantia_, who knewthat nothing but the Report of her Marriage could have driven him tosuch Extremities, was not to be comforted: She now accused her self forhaving so tamely given an Ear to the Proposal of a Husband, and lookedupon the new Lover as the Murderer of _Theodosius:_ In short, sheresolved to suffer the utmost Effects of her Father's Displeasure,rather than comply with a Marriage which appeared to her so full ofGuilt and Horror. The Father seeing himself entirely rid of_Theodosius,_ and likely to keep a considerable Portion in his Family,was not very much concerned at the obstinate Refusal of his Daughter;and did not find it very difficult to excuse himself upon that Accountto his intended Son-in-law, who had all along regarded this Alliancerather as a Marriage of Convenience than of Love. _Constantia_ had nowno Relief but in her Devotions and Exercises of Religion, to which herAfflictions had so entirely subjected her Mind, that after some Yearshad abated the Violence of her Sorrows, and settled her Thoughts in akind of Tranquillity, she resolved to pass the Remainder of her Days ina Convent. Her Father was not displeased with [a [2]] Resolution, [which[3]] would save Money in his Family, and readily complied with hisDaughter's Intentions. Accordingly in the Twenty-fifth Year of her Age,while her Beauty was yet in all its Height and Bloom, he carried her toa neighbouring City, in order to look out a Sisterhood of Nuns amongwhom to place his Daughter. There was in this Place a Father of aConvent who was very much renowned for his Piety and exemplary Life; andas it is usual in the Romish Church for those who are under any greatAffliction, or Trouble of Mind, to apply themselves to the most eminentConfessors for Pardon and Consolation, our beautiful Votary took theOpportunity of confessing herself to this celebrated Father.

We must now return to Theodosius, who, the very Morning that theabove-mentioned Inquiries had been made after him, arrived at areligious House in the City, where now Constantia resided; and desiringthat Secresy and Concealment of the Fathers of the Convent, which isvery usual upon any extraordinary Occasion, he made himself one of theOrder, with a private Vow never to enquire after _Constantia_; whom helooked upon as given away to his Rival upon the Day on which, accordingto common Fame, their Marriage was to have been solemnized. Having inhis Youth made a good Progress in Learning, that he might dedicate[himself [4]] more entirely to Religion, he entered into holy Orders,and in a few Years became renowned for his Sanctity of Life, and thosepious Sentiments which he inspired into all [who [5]] conversed withhim. It was this holy Man to whom _Constantia_ had determined to applyher self in Confession, tho' neither she nor any other besides the Priorof the Convent, knew any thing of his Name or Family. The gay, theamiable _Theodosius_ had now taken upon him the Name of Father_Francis_, and was so far concealed in a long Beard, a [shaven [3]]Head, and a religious Habit, that it was impossible to discover the Manof the World in the venerable Conventual.

As he was one Morning shut up in his Confessional, _Constantia_ kneelingby him opened the State of her Soul to him; and after having given himthe History of a Life full of Innocence, she burst out in Tears, andentred upon that Part of her Story in which he himself had so great aShare. My Behaviour, says she, has I fear been the Death of a Man whohad no other Fault but that of loving me too much. Heaven only knows howdear he was to me whilst he liv'd, and how bitter the Remembrance of himhas been to me since his Death. She here paused, and lifted up her Eyesthat streamed with Tears towards the Father; who was so moved with theSense of her Sorrows, that he could only command his Voice, which wasbroke with Sighs and Sobbings, so far as to bid her proceed. Shefollowed his Directions, and in a Flood of Tears poured out her Heartbefore him. The Father could not forbear weeping aloud, insomuch that inthe Agonies of his Grief the Seat shook under him. _Constantia_, whothought the good Man was thus moved by his Compassion towards her, andby the Horror of her Guilt, proceeded with the utmost Contrition toacquaint him with that Vow of Virginity in which she was going to engageherself, as the proper Atonement for her Sins, and the only Sacrificeshe could make to the Memory of _Theodosius_. The Father, who by thistime had pretty well composed himself, burst out again in Tears uponhearing that Name to which he had been so long disused, and uponreceiving this Instance of an unparallel'd Fidelity from one who hethought had several Years since given herself up to the Possession ofanother. Amidst the Interruptions of his Sorrow, seeing his Penitentoverwhelmed with Grief, he was only able to bid her from time to time becomforted--To tell her that her Sins were forgiven her--That her Guiltwas not so great as she apprehended--That she should not suffer her selfto be afflicted above Measure. After which he recovered himself enoughto give her the Absolution in Form; directing her at the same time torepair to him again the next Day, that he might encourage her in thepious Resolution[s] she had taken, and give her suitable Exhortationsfor her Behaviour in it. _Constantia_ retired, and the next Morningrenewed her Applications. _Theodosius_ having manned his Soul withproper Thoughts and Reflections exerted himself on this Occasion in thebest Manner he could to animate his Penitent in the Course of Life shewas entering upon, and wear out of her Mind those groundless Fears andApprehensions which had taken Possession of it; concluding with aPromise to her, that he would from time to time continue his Admonitionswhen she should have taken upon her the holy Veil. The Rules of ourrespective Orders, says he, will not permit that I should see you, butyou may assure your self not only of having a Place in my Prayers, butof receiving such frequent Instructions as I can convey to you byLetters. Go on chearfully in the glorious Course you have undertaken,and you will quickly find such a Peace and Satisfaction in your Mind,which it is not in the Power of the World to give.

_Constantia's_ Heart was so elevated with the Discourse of Father_Francis_, that the very next Day she entered upon her Vow. As soon asthe Solemnities of her Reception were over, she retired, as it is usual,with the Abbess into her own Apartment.

The Abbess had been informed the Night before of all that had passedbetween her Noviciate and Father _Francis:_ From whom she now deliveredto her the following Letter.

'As the First-fruits of those Joys and Consolations which you may expect from the Life you are now engaged in, I must acquaint you that _Theodosius_, whose Death sits so heavy upon your Thoughts, is still alive; and that the Father, to whom you have confessed your self, was once that _Theodosius_ whom you so much lament. The love which we have had for one another will make us more happy in its Disappointment than it could have done in its Success. Providence has disposed of us for our Advantage, tho' not according to our Wishes. Consider your _Theodosius_ still as dead, but assure your self of one who will not cease to pray for you in Father.'

_FRANCIS._

_Constantia_ saw that the Hand-writing agreed with the Contents of theLetter: and upon reflecting on the Voice of the Person, the Behaviour,and above all the extreme Sorrow of the Father during her Confession,she discovered _Theodosius_ in every Particular. After having wept withTears of Joy, It is enough, says she, _Theodosius_ is still in Being: Ishall live with Comfort and die in Peace.

The Letters which the Father sent her afterwards are yet extant in theNunnery where she resided; and are often read to the young Religious, inorder to inspire them with good Resolutions and Sentiments of Virtue. Itso happened, that after _Constantia_ had lived about ten Years in theCloyster, a violent Feaver broke out in the Place, which swept awaygreat Multitudes, and among others _Theodosius._ Upon his Deathbed hesent his Benediction in a very moving Manner to _Constantia,_ who atthat time was herself so far gone in the same fatal Distemper, that shelay delirious. Upon the Interval which generally precedes Death inSicknesses of this Nature, the Abbess, finding that the Physicians hadgiven her over, told her that _Theodosius_ was just gone before her, andthat he had sent her his Benediction in his last Moments. _Constantia_received it with Pleasure: And now, says she, If I do not ask anythingimproper, let me be buried by _Theodosius._ My Vow reaches no fartherthan the Grave. What I ask is, I hope, no Violation of it.--She diedsoon after, and was interred according to her Request.

Their Tombs are still to be seen, with a short Latin Inscription overthem to the following Purpose.

Here lie the Bodies of Father _Francis_ and Sister _Constance. They werelovely in their Lives, and in their Deaths they were not divided._

I have often wished, that as in our Constitution there are severalPersons whose Business it is to watch over our Laws, our Liberties andCommerce, certain Men might be set apart as Superintendants of ourLanguage, to hinder any Words of a Foreign Coin from passing among us;and in particular to prohibit any _French_ Phrases from becoming Currentin this Kingdom, when those of our own Stamp are altogether as valuable.The present War has so Adulterated our Tongue with strange Words that itwould be impossible for one of our Great Grandfathers to know what hisPosterity have been doing, were he to read their Exploits in a ModernNews Paper. Our Warriors are very industrious in propagating the_French_ Language, at the same time that they are so gloriouslysuccessful in beating down their Power. Our Soldiers are Men of strongHeads for Action, and perform such Feats as they are not able toexpress. They want Words in their own Tongue to tell us what it is theyAtchieve, and therefore send us over Accounts of their Performances in aJargon of Phrases, which they learn among their Conquered Enemies. Theyought however to be provided with Secretaries, and assisted by ourForeign Ministers, to tell their Story for them in plain _English_, andto let us know in our Mother-Tongue what it is our brave Country-Men areabout. The _French_ would indeed be in the right to publish the News ofthe present War in _English_ Phrases, and make their Campaignsunintelligible. Their People might flatter themselves that Things arenot so bad as they really are, were they thus palliated with ForeignTerms, and thrown into Shades and Obscurity: but the _English_ cannot betoo clear in their Narrative of those Actions, which have raised theirCountry to a higher Pitch of Glory than it ever yet arrived at, andwhich will be still the more admired the better they are explained.

For my part, by that time a Siege is carried on two or three Days, I amaltogether lost and bewildered in it, and meet with so many inexplicableDifficulties, that I scarce know what Side has the better of it, till Iam informed by the Tower Guns that the Place is surrendered. I do indeedmake some Allowances for this Part of the War, Fortifications havingbeen foreign Inventions, and upon that Account abounding in foreignTerms. But when we have won Battels [which [2]] may be described in ourown Language, why are our Papers filled with so many unintelligibleExploits, and the _French_ obliged to lend us a Part of their Tonguebefore we can know how they are Conquered? They must be made accessoryto their own Disgrace, as the _Britons_ were formerly so artificiallywrought in the Curtain of the _Roman_ Theatre, that they seemed to drawit up in order to give the Spectators an Opportunity of seeing their ownDefeat celebrated upon the Stage: For so Mr. _Dryden_ has translatedthat Verse in _Virgil_.

The Histories of all our former Wars are transmitted to us in ourVernacular Idiom, to use the Phrase of a great Modern Critick. [4] I donot find in any of our Chronicles, that _Edward_ the Third everreconnoitred the Enemy, tho' he often discovered the Posture of the_French_, and as often vanquished them in Battel. The _Black Prince_passed many a River without the help of Pontoons, and filled a Ditchwith Faggots as successfully as the Generals of our Times do it withFascines. Our Commanders lose half their Praise, and our People halftheir Joy, by means of those hard Words and dark Expressions in whichour News Papers do so much abound. I have seen many a prudent Citizen,after having read every Article, inquire of his next Neighbour what Newsthe Mail had brought.

I remember in that remarkable Year when our Country was delivered fromthe greatest Fears and Apprehensions, and raised to the greatest Heightof Gladness it had ever felt since it was a Nation, I mean the Year of_Blenheim_, I had the Copy of a Letter sent me out of the Country, whichwas written from a young Gentleman in the Army to his Father, a Man of agood Estate and plain Sense: As the Letter was very modishly chequeredwith this Modern Military Eloquence, I shall present my Reader with aCopy of it.

_SIR_,

Upon the Junction of the _French_ and _Bavarian_ Armies they took Post behind a great Morass which they thought impracticable. Our General the next Day sent a Party of Horse to reconnoitre them from a little Hauteur, at about a [Quarter of an Hour's [5]] distance from the Army, who returned again to the Camp unobserved through several Defiles, in one of which they met with a Party of _French_ that had been Marauding, and made them all Prisoners at Discretion. The Day after a Drum arrived at our Camp, with a Message which he would communicate to none but the General; he was followed by a Trumpet, who they say behaved himself very saucily, with a Message from the Duke of _Bavaria_. The next Morning our Army being divided into two Corps, made a Movement towards the Enemy: You will hear in the Publick Prints how we treated them, with the other Circumstances of that glorious Day. I had the good Fortune to be in that Regiment that pushed the _Gens d'Arms_. Several _French_ Battalions, who some say were a Corps de Reserve, made a Show of Resistance; but it only proved a Gasconade, for upon our preparing to fill up a little Fosse, in order to attack them, they beat the Chamade, and sent us _Charte Blanche_. Their Commandant, with a great many other General Officers, and Troops without number, are made Prisoners of War, and will I believe give you a Visit in _England_, the Cartel not being yet settled. Not questioning but these Particulars will be very welcome to you, I congratulate you upon them, and am your most dutiful Son, &c.'

The Father of the young Gentleman upon the Perusal of the Letter foundit contained great News, but could not guess what it was. He immediatelycommunicated it to the Curate of the Parish, who upon the reading of it,being vexed to see any thing he could not understand, fell into a kindof a Passion, and told him that his Son had sent him a Letter that wasneither Fish, nor Flesh, nor good Red-Herring. I wish, says he, theCaptain may be _Compos Mentis_, he talks of a saucy Trumpet, and a Drumthat carries Messages; then who is this _Charte Blanche_? He must eitherbanter us or he is out of his Senses. The Father, who always looked uponthe Curate as a learned Man, began to fret inwardly at his Son's Usage,and producing a Letter which he had written to him about three Postsafore, You see here, says he, when he writes for Mony he knows how tospeak intelligibly enough; there is no Man in England can expresshimself clearer, when he wants a new Furniture for his Horse. In short,the old Man was so puzzled upon the Point, that it might have fared illwith his Son, had he not seen all the Prints about three Days afterfilled with the same Terms of Art, and that _Charles_ only writ likeother Men.

Aristotle tells us that the World is a Copy or Transcript of those Ideaswhich are in the Mind of the first Being, and that those Ideas, whichare in the Mind of Man, are a Transcript of the World: To this we mayadd, that Words are the Transcript of those Ideas which are in the Mindof Man, and that Writing or Printing are the Transcript of words.

As the Supreme Being has expressed, and as it were printed his Ideas inthe Creation, Men express their Ideas in Books, which by this greatInvention of these latter Ages may last as long as the Sun and Moon, andperish only in the general Wreck of Nature. Thus _Cowley_ in his Poem onthe Resurrection, mentioning the Destruction of the Universe, has thoseadmirable Lines.

'_Now all the wide extended Sky, And all th' harmonious Worlds on high, And_ Virgil's _sacred Work shall die_.'

There is no other Method of fixing those Thoughts which arise anddisappear in the Mind of Man, and transmitting them to the last Periodsof Time; no other Method of giving a Permanency to our Ideas, andpreserving the Knowledge of any particular Person, when his Body ismixed with the common Mass of Matter, and his Soul retired into theWorld of Spirits. Books are the Legacies that a great Genius leaves toMankind, which are delivered down from Generation to Generation, asPresents to the Posterity of those who are yet unborn.

All other Arts of perpetuating our Ideas continue but a short Time:Statues can last but a few Thousands of Years, Edifices fewer, andColours still fewer than Edifices. _Michael Angelo_, _Fontana_, and_Raphael_, will hereafter be what _Phidias_, _Vitruvius_, and _Apelles_are at present; the Names of great Statuaries, Architects and Painters,whose Works are lost. The several Arts are expressed in mouldringMaterials: Nature sinks under them, and is not able to support the Ideaswhich are imprest upon it.

The Circumstance which gives Authors an Advantage above all these greatMasters, is this, that they can multiply their Originals; or rather canmake Copies of their Works, to what Number they please, which shall beas valuable as the Originals themselves. This gives a great Authorsomething like a Prospect of Eternity, but at the same time deprives himof those other Advantages which Artists meet with. The Artist findsgreater Returns in Profit, as the Author in Fame. What an InestimablePrice would a _Virgil_ or a _Homer_, a _Cicero_ or an _Aristotle_ bear,were their Works like a Statue, a Building, or a Picture, to be confinedonly in one Place and made the Property of a single Person?

If Writings are thus durable, and may pass from Age to Age throughoutthe whole Course of Time, how careful should an Author be of committingany thing to Print that may corrupt Posterity, and poison the Minds ofMen with Vice and Error? Writers of great Talents, who employ theirParts in propagating Immorality, and seasoning vicious Sentiments withWit and Humour, are to be looked upon as the Pests of Society, and theEnemies of Mankind: They leave Books behind them (as it is said of thosewho die in Distempers which breed an Ill-will towards their own Species)to scatter Infection and destroy their Posterity. They act theCounterparts of a _Confucius_ or a _Socrates_; and seem to have beensent into the World to deprave human Nature, and sink it into theCondition of Brutality.

I have seen some Roman-Catholick Authors, who tell us that viciousWriters continue in Purgatory so long as the Influence of their Writingscontinues upon Posterity: For Purgatory, say they, is nothing else but acleansing us of our Sins, which cannot be said to be done away, so longas they continue to operate and corrupt Mankind. The vicious Author, saythey, sins after Death, and so long as he continues to sin, so long musthe expect to be punished. Tho' the Roman Catholick Notion of Purgatorybe indeed very ridiculous, one cannot but think that if the Soul afterDeath has any Knowledge of what passes in this World, that of an immoralWriter would receive much more Regret from the Sense of corrupting, thanSatisfaction from the Thought of pleasing his surviving Admirers.

To take off from the Severity of this Speculation, I shall conclude thisPaper with a Story of an Atheistical Author, who at a time when he laydangerously sick, and desired the Assistance of a neighbouring Curate,confessed to him with great Contrition, that nothing sat more heavy athis Heart than the Sense of his having seduced the Age by his Writings,and that their evil Influence was likely to continue even after hisDeath. The Curate upon further Examination finding the Penitent in theutmost Agonies of Despair, and being himself a Man of Learning, toldhim, that he hoped his Case was not so desperate as he apprehended,since he found that he was so very sensible of his Fault, and sosincerely repented of it. The Penitent still urged the evil Tendency ofhis Book to subvert all Religion, and the little Ground of Hope therecould be for one whose Writings would continue to do Mischief when hisBody was laid in Ashes. The Curate, finding no other Way to comfort him,told him, that he did well in being afflicted for the evil Design withwhich he published his Book; but that he ought to be very thankful thatthere was no danger of its doing any Hurt: That his Cause was so verybad, and his Arguments so weak, that he did not apprehend any illEffects of it: In short, that he might rest satisfied his Book could dono more Mischief after his Death, than it had done whilst he was living.To which he added, for his farther Satisfaction, that he did not believeany besides his particular Friends and Acquaintance had ever been at thepains of reading it, or that any Body after his Death would ever enquireafter it. The dying Man had still so much the Frailty of an Author inhim, as to be cut to the Heart with these Consolations; and withoutanswering the good Man, asked his Friends about him (with a Peevishnessthat is natural to a sick Person) where they had picked up such aBlockhead? And whether they thought him a proper Person to attend one inhis Condition? The Curate finding that the Author did not expect to bedealt with as a real and sincere Penitent, but as a Penitent ofImportance, after a short Admonition withdrew; not questioning but heshould be again sent for if the Sickness grew desperate. The Authorhowever recovered, and has since written two or three other Tracts withthe same Spirit, and very luckily for his poor Soul with the sameSuccess.

The unhappy Force of an Imagination, unguided by the Check of Reason andJudgment, was the Subject of a former Speculation. My Reader mayremember that he has seen in one of my Papers a Complaint of anUnfortunate Gentleman, who was unable to contain himself, (when anyordinary matter was laid before him) from adding a few Circumstances toenliven plain Narrative. That Correspondent was a Person of too warm aComplexion to be satisfied with things merely as they stood in Nature,and therefore formed Incidents which should have happened to havepleased him in the Story. The same ungoverned Fancy which pushed thatCorrespondent on, in spite of himself, to relate publick and notoriousFalsehoods, makes the Author of the following Letter do the same inPrivate; one is a Prating, the other a Silent Liar.

There is little pursued in the Errors of either of these Worthies, butmere present Amusement: But the Folly of him who lets his Fancy placehim in distant Scenes untroubled and uninterrupted, is very muchpreferable to that of him who is ever forcing a Belief, and defendinghis Untruths with new Inventions. But I shall hasten to let this Liar inSoliloquy, who calls himself a CASTLE-BUILDER, describe himself with thesame Unreservedness as formerly appeared in my Correspondentabove-mentioned. If a Man were to be serious on this Subject, he mightgive very grave Admonitions to those who are following any thing in thisLife, on which they think to place their Hearts, and tell them that theyare really CASTLE-BUILDERS. Fame, Glory, Wealth, Honour, have in theProspect pleasing Illusions; but they who come to possess any of themwill find they are Ingredients towards Happiness, to be regarded only inthe second Place; and that when they are valued in the first Degree,they are as dis-appointing as any of the Phantoms in the followingLetter.

_Sept._ 6, 1711.

_Mr._ SPECTATOR,

'I am a Fellow of a very odd Frame of Mind, as you will find by the Sequel; and think myself Fool enough to deserve a Place in your Paper. I am unhappily far gone in Building, and am one of that Species of Men who are properly denominated Castle-Builders, who scorn to be beholden to the Earth for a Foundation, or dig in the Bowels of it for Materials; but erect their Structures in the most unstable of Elements, the Air, Fancy alone laying the Line, marking the Extent, and shaping the Model. It would be difficult to enumerate what august Palaces and stately Porticoes have grown under my forming Imagination, or what verdant Meadows and shady Groves have started into Being, by the powerful Feat of a warm Fancy. A Castle-builder is even just what he pleases, and as such I have grasped imaginary Scepters, and delivered uncontroulable Edicts, from a Throne to which conquered Nations yielded Obeysance. I have made I know not how many Inroads into _France_, and ravaged the very Heart of that Kingdom; I have dined in the _Louvre_, and drank Champaign at _Versailles;_ and I would have you take Notice, I am not only able to vanquish a People already cowed and accustomed to Flight, but I could, _Almanzor_-like, [1] drive the _British_ General from the Field, were I less a Protestant, or had ever been affronted by the Confederates. There is no Art or Profession, whose most celebrated Masters I have not eclipsed. Where-ever I have afforded my Salutary Preference, Fevers have ceased to burn, and Agues to shake the Human Fabrick. When an Eloquent Fit has been upon me, an apt Gesture and proper Cadence has animated each Sentence, and gazing Crowds have found their Passions work'd up into Rage, or soothed into a Calm. I am short, and not very well made; yet upon Sight of a fine Woman, I have stretched into proper Stature, and killed with a good Air and Mein. These are the gay Phantoms that dance before my waking Eyes and compose my Day-Dreams. I should be the most contented happy Man alive, were the Chimerical Happiness which springs from the Paintings of the Fancy less fleeting and transitory. But alas! it is with Grief of Mind I tell you, the least Breath of Wind has often demolished my magnificent Edifices, swept away my Groves, and left no more Trace of them than if they had never been. My Exchequer has sunk and vanished by a Rap on my Door, the Salutation of a Friend has cost me a whole Continent, and in the same Moment I have been pulled by the Sleeve, my Crown has fallen from my Head. The ill Consequence of these Reveries is inconceivably great, seeing the loss of imaginary Possessions makes Impressions of real Woe. Besides, bad Oeconomy is visible and apparent in Builders of invisible Mansions. My Tenant's Advertisements of Ruins and Dilapidations often cast a Damp on my Spirits, even in the Instant when the Sun, in all his Splendor, gilds my Eastern Palaces. Add to this the pensive Drudgery in Building, and constant grasping Aerial Trowels, distracts and shatters the Mind, and the fond Builder of _Babells_ is often cursed with an incoherent Diversity and Confusion of Thoughts. I do not know to whom I can more properly apply my self for Relief from this Fantastical Evil, than to your self; whom I earnestly implore to accommodate me with a Method how to settle my Head and cool my Brain-pan. A Dissertation on Castle-Building may not only be serviceable to my self, but all Architects, who display their Skill in the thin Element. Such a Favour would oblige me to make my next Soliloquy not contain the Praises of my dear Self but of the SPECTATOR, who shall, by complying with this, make me.'

_His Obliged, Humble Servant._ Vitruvius.

[Footnote 1: "(unreadable on original page) in Dryden's 'Conquest ofGranada.'"]

* * * * *

No. 168. Wednesday, September 12, 1711. Steele.

'... _Pectus Praeceptis format amicis_.'

Hor.

It would be Arrogance to neglect the Application of my Correspondents sofar as not sometimes to insert their Animadversions upon my Paper; thatof this Day shall be therefore wholly composed of the Hints which theyhave sent me.

_Mr_. SPECTATOR,

I Send you this to congratulate your late Choice of a Subject, for treating on which you deserve publick Thanks; I mean that on those licensed Tyrants the Schoolmasters. If you can disarm them of their Rods, you will certainly have your old Age reverenced by all the young Gentlemen of _Great-Britain_ who are now between seven and seventeen Years. You may boast that the incomparably wise _Quintilian_ and you are of one Mind in this Particular.

i. e. _I blush to say how shamefully those wicked Men abuse the Power of Correction_.'

I was bred myself, Sir, in a very great School, of which the Master was a _Welchman_, but certainly descended from a _Spanish_ Family, as plainly appeared from his Temper as well as his Name. [2] I leave you to judge what sort of a Schoolmaster a _Welchman_ ingrafted on a _Spaniard_ would make. So very dreadful had he made himself to me, that altho' it is above twenty Years since I felt his heavy Hand, yet still once a Month at least I dream of him, so strong an Impression did he make on my Mind. 'Tis a Sign he has fully terrified me waking, who still continues to haunt me sleeping.

And yet I may say without Vanity, that the Business of the School was what I did without great Difficulty; and I was not remarkably unlucky; and yet such was the Master's Severity that once a Month, or oftner, I suffered as much as would have satisfied the Law of the Land for a _Petty Larceny_.

Many a white and tender Hand, which the fond Mother has passionately kissed a thousand and a thousand times, have I seen whipped till it was covered with Blood: perhaps for smiling, or for going a Yard and half out of a Gate, or for writing an O for an A, or an A for an O: These were our great Faults! Many a brave and noble Spirit has been there broken; others have run from thence and were never heard of afterwards.

It is a worthy Attempt to undertake the Cause of distrest Youth; and it is a noble Piece of _Knight-Errantry_ to enter the Lists against so many armed Pedagogues. 'Tis pity but we had a Set of Men, polite in their Behaviour and Method of Teaching, who should be put into a Condition of being above flattering or fearing the Parents of those they instruct. We might then possibly see Learning become a Pleasure, and Children delighting themselves in that which now they abhor for coming upon such hard Terms to them: What would be a still greater Happiness arising from the Care of such Instructors, would be, that we should have no more Pedants, nor any bred to Learning who had not Genius for it. I am, with the utmost Sincerity, _SIR, Your most affectionate humble Servant_.

_Richmond, Sept._ 5_th_, 1711.

_Mr_. SPECTATOR,

I am a Boy of fourteen Years of Age, and have for this last Year been under the Tuition of a Doctor of Divinity, who has taken the School of this Place under his Care. [3] From the Gentleman's great Tenderness to me and Friendship to my Father, I am very happy in learning my Book with Pleasure. We never leave off our Diversions any farther than to salute him at Hours of Play when he pleases to look on. It is impossible for any of us to love our own Parents better than we do him. He never gives any of us an harsh Word, and we think it the greatest Punishment in the World when he will not speak to any of us. My Brother and I are both together inditing this Letter: He is a Year older than I am, but is now ready to break his Heart that the Doctor has not taken any Notice of him these three Days. If you please to print this he will see it, and, we hope, taking it for my Brother's earnest Desire to be restored to his Favour, he will again smile upon him. _Your most obedient Servant_, T. S.

_Mr_. SPECTATOR,

You have represented several sorts of _Impertinents_ singly, I wish you would now proceed, and describe some of them in Sets. It often happens in publick Assemblies, that a Party who came thither together, or whose Impertinencies are of an equal Pitch, act in Concert, and are so full of themselves as to give Disturbance to all that are about them. Sometimes you have a Set of Whisperers, who lay their Heads together in order to sacrifice every Body within their Observation; sometimes a Set of Laughers, that keep up an insipid Mirth in their own Corner, and by their Noise and Gestures shew they have no Respect for the rest of the Company. You frequently meet with these Sets at the Opera, the Play, the Water-works, [4] and other publick Meetings, where their whole Business is to draw off the Attention of the Spectators from the Entertainment, and to fix it upon themselves; and it is to be observed that the Impertinence is ever loudest, when the Set happens to be made up of three or four Females who have got what you call a Woman's Man among them.

I am at a loss to know from whom People of Fortune should learn this Behaviour, unless it be from the Footmen who keep their Places at a new Play, and are often seen passing away their Time in Sets at _All-fours_ in the Face of a full House, and with a perfect Disregard to People of Quality sitting on each Side of them.

For preserving therefore the Decency of publick Assemblies, methinks it would be but reasonable that those who Disturb others should pay at least a double Price for their Places; or rather Women of Birth and Distinction should be informed that a Levity of Behaviour in the Eyes of People of Understanding degrades them below their meanest Attendants; and Gentlemen should know that a fine Coat is a Livery, when the Person who wears it discovers no higher Sense than that of a Footman. I am _SIR_, _Your most humble Servant._

_Bedfordshire, Sept.._ 1, 1711

_Mr_. SPECTATOR,

I am one of those whom every Body calls a Pocher, and sometimes go out to course with a Brace of Greyhounds, a Mastiff, and a Spaniel or two; and when I am weary with Coursing, and have killed Hares enough, go to an Ale-house to refresh my self. I beg the Favour of you (as you set up for a Reformer) to send us Word how many Dogs you will allow us to go with, how many Full-Pots of Ale to drink, and how many Hares to kill in a Day, and you will do a great Piece of Service to all the Sportsmen: Be quick then, for the Time of Coursing is come on.

_Yours in Haste_, T. Isaac Hedgeditch.

[Footnote 1: 'Instit. Orat.' Bk. I. ch. 3.]

[Footnote 2: Dr. Charles Roderick, Head Master of Eton.]

[Footnote 3: Dr. Nicholas Brady, Tate's colleague in versification ofthe Psalms. He was Rector of Clapham and Minister of Richmond, where hehad the school. He died in 1726, aged 67.]

[Footnote 4: The Water Theatre, invented by Mr. Winstanley, andexhibited by his widow at the lower end of Piccadilly.]

Man is subject to innumerable Pains and Sorrows by the very Condition ofHumanity, and yet, as if Nature had not sown Evils enough in Life, weare continually adding Grief to Grief, and aggravating the commonCalamity by our cruel Treatment of one another. Every Man's naturalWeight of Afflictions is still made more heavy by the Envy, Malice,Treachery, or Injustice of his Neighbour. At the same time that theStorm beats upon the whole Species, we are falling foul upon oneanother.

Half the Misery of Human Life might be extinguished, would Men alleviatethe general Curse they lie under, by mutual Offices of Compassion,Benevolence, and Humanity. There is nothing therefore which we oughtmore to encourage in our selves and others, than that Disposition ofMind which in our Language goes under the Title of Good-nature, andwhich I shall chuse for the Subject of this Day's Speculation.

Good-nature is more agreeable in Conversation than Wit, and gives acertain Air to the Countenance which is more amiable than Beauty. Itshows Virtue in the fairest Light, takes off in some measure from theDeformity of Vice, and makes even Folly and Impertinence supportable.

There is no Society or Conversation to be kept up in the World withoutGood-nature, or something which must bear its Appearance, and supply itsPlace. For this Reason Mankind have been forced to invent a kind ofArtificial Humanity, which is what we express by the Word_Good-Breeding_. For if we examine thoroughly the Idea of what we callso, we shall find it to be nothing else but an Imitation and Mimickry ofGood-nature, or in other Terms, Affability, Complaisance and Easiness ofTemper reduced into an Art.

These exterior Shows and Appearances of Humanity render a Manwonderfully popular and beloved when they are founded upon a realGood-nature; but without it are like Hypocrisy in Religion, or a bareForm of Holiness, which, when it is discovered, makes a Man moredetestable than professed Impiety.

Good-nature is generally born with us: Health, Prosperity and kindTreatment from the World are great Cherishers of it where they find it;but nothing is capable of forcing it up, where it does not grow of itself. It is one of the Blessings of a happy Constitution, whichEducation may improve but not produce.

Xenophon [1] in the Life of his Imaginary Prince, whom he describes as aPattern for Real ones, is always celebrating the _Philanthropy_ orGood-nature of his Hero, which he tells us he brought into the Worldwith him, and gives many remarkable Instances of it in his Childhood, aswell as in all the several Parts of his Life. Nay, on his Death-bed, hedescribes him as being pleased, that while his Soul returned to him [who[2]] made it, his Body should incorporate with the great Mother of allthings, and by that means become beneficial to Mankind. For whichReason, he gives his Sons a positive Order not to enshrine it in Gold orSilver, but to lay it in the Earth as soon as the Life was gone out ofit.

An Instance of such an Overflowing of Humanity, such an exuberant Loveto Mankind, could not have entered into the Imagination of a Writer, whohad not a Soul filled with great Ideas, and a general Benevolence toMankind.

In that celebrated Passage of _Salust_, [3] where _Caesar_ and _Cato_ areplaced in such beautiful, but opposite Lights; _Caesar's_ Character ischiefly made up of Good-nature, as it shewed itself in all its Formstowards his Friends or his Enemies, his Servants or Dependants, theGuilty or the Distressed. As for _Cato's_ Character, it is rather awfulthan amiable. Justice seems most agreeable to the Nature of God, andMercy to that of Man. A Being who has nothing to Pardon in himself, mayreward every Man according to his Works; but he whose very best Actionsmust be seen with Grains of Allowance, cannot be too mild, moderate, andforgiving. For this reason, among all the monstrous Characters in HumanNature, there is none so odious, nor indeed so exquisitely Ridiculous,as that of a rigid severe Temper in a Worthless Man.

This Part of Good-nature, however, which consists in the pardoning andoverlooking of Faults, is to be exercised only in doing our selvesJustice, and that too in the ordinary Commerce and Occurrences of Life;for in the publick Administrations of Justice, Mercy to one may beCruelty to others.

It is grown almost into a Maxim, that Good-natured Men are not alwaysMen of the most Wit. This Observation, in my Opinion, has no Foundationin Nature. The greatest Wits I have conversed with are Men eminent fortheir Humanity. I take therefore this Remark to have been occasioned bytwo Reasons. First, Because Ill-nature among ordinary Observers passesfor Wit. A spiteful Saying gratifies so many little Passions in thosewho hear it, that it generally meets with a good Reception. The Laughrises upon it, and the Man who utters it is looked upon as a shrewdSatyrist. This may be one Reason, why a great many pleasant Companionsappear so surprisingly dull, when they have endeavoured to be Merry inPrint; the Publick being more just than Private Clubs or Assemblies, indistinguishing between what is Wit and what is Ill-nature.

Another Reason why the Good-natured Man may sometimes bring his Wit inQuestion, is, perhaps, because he is apt to be moved with Compassion forthose Misfortunes or Infirmities, which another would turn intoRidicule, and by that means gain the Reputation of a Wit. TheIll-natured Man, though but of equal Parts, gives himself a larger Fieldto expatiate in; he exposes those Failings in Human Nature which theother would cast a Veil over, laughs at Vices which the other eitherexcuses or conceals, gives utterance to Reflections which the otherstifles, falls indifferently upon Friends or Enemies, exposes the Person[who [4]] has obliged him, and, in short, sticks at nothing that mayestablish his Character of a Wit. It is no Wonder therefore he succeedsin it better than the Man of Humanity, as a Person who makes use ofindirect Methods, is more likely to grow Rich than the Fair Trader.

L.

[Footnote 1: 'Cyropaedia', Bk. viii. ch. 6.]

[Footnote 2: that]

[Footnote 3: 'Catiline', c. 54.]

[Footnote 4: that]

* * * * *

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

HENRY BOYLE, ESQ. [1]

_SIR_,

As the profest Design of this Work is to entertain its Readers ingeneral, without giving Offence to any particular Person, it would bedifficult to find out so proper a Patron for it as Your Self, therebeing none whose Merit is more universally acknowledged by all Parties,and who has made himself more Friends and fewer Enemies. Your greatAbilities, and unquestioned Integrity, in those high Employments whichYou have passed through, would not have been able to have raised Youthis general Approbation, had they not been accompanied with thatModeration in an high Fortune, and that Affability of Manners, which areso conspicuous through all Parts of your Life. Your Aversion to anyOstentatious Arts of setting to Show those great Services which you havedone the Publick, has not likewise a little contributed to thatUniversal Acknowledgment which is paid You by your Country.

The Consideration of this Part of Your Character, is that which hindersme from enlarging on those Extraordinary Talents, which have given Youso great a Figure in the _British_ Senate, as well as on that Eleganceand Politeness which appear in Your more retired Conversation. I shouldbe unpardonable, if, after what I have said, I should longer detain Youwith an Address of this Nature: I cannot, however, conclude it withoutowning those great Obligations which You have laid upon,

_SIR,

Your most obedient,

humble Servant_,

THE SPECTATOR.

[Footnote 1: Henry Boyle, to whom the third volume of the Spectator isdedicated, was the youngest son of Charles, Lord Clifford; one of thefamily founded by the Richard, Earl of Cork, who bought Raleigh'sproperty in Ireland.

From March, 1701, to February, 1707-8, Henry Boyle was King William'sChancellor of the Exchequer. He was then, till September, 1710, one ofthe principal Secretaries of State. He had materially helped Addison bynegotiating between him and Lord Godolphin respecting the celebration ofthe Battle of Blenheim. On the accession of George I. Henry Boyle becameLord Carleton and President of the Council. He died in 1724, and had hisLife written by Addison's cousin Budgell.]

Upon looking over the Letters of my female Correspondents, I findseveral from Women complaining of jealous Husbands, and at the same timeprotesting their own Innocence; and desiring my Advice on this Occasion.I shall therefore take this Subject into my Consideration, and the morewillingly, because I find that the Marquis of _Hallifax_, who in his_Advice to a Daughter_ [1] has instructed a Wife how to behave her selftowards a false, an intemperate, a cholerick, a sullen, a covetous, or asilly Husband, has not spoken one Word of a Jealous Husband.

_Jealousy is that Pain which a Man feels from the Apprehension that heis not equally beloved by the Person whom he entirely loves._ Now,because our inward Passions and Inclinations can never make themselvesvisible, it is impossible for a jealous Man to be thoroughly cured ofhis Suspicions. His Thoughts hang at best in a State of Doubtfulness andUncertainty; and are never capable of receiving any Satisfaction on theadvantageous Side; so that his Enquiries are most successful when theydiscover nothing: His Pleasure arises from his Disappointments, and hisLife is spent in Pursuit of a Secret that destroys his Happiness if hechance to find it.

An ardent Love is always a strong Ingredient in this Passion; for thesame Affection which stirs up the jealous Man's Desires, and gives theParty beloved so beautiful a Figure in his Imagination, makes himbelieve she kindles the same Passion in others, and appears as amiableto all Beholders. And as Jealousy thus arises from an extraordinaryLove, it is of so delicate a Nature, that it scorns to take up with anything less than an equal Return of Love. Not the warmest Expressions ofAffection, the softest and most tender Hypocrisy, are able to give anySatisfaction, where we are not persuaded that the Affection is real andthe Satisfaction mutual. For the jealous Man wishes himself a kind ofDeity to the Person he loves: He would be the only Pleasure of herSenses, the Employment of her Thoughts; and is angry at every thing sheadmires, or takes Delight in, besides himself.

Phaedria's Request to his Mistress, upon his leaving her for three Days,is inimitably beautiful and natural.

The Jealous Man's Disease is of so malignant a Nature, that it convertsall he takes into its own Nourishment. A cool Behaviour sets him on theRack, and is interpreted as an instance of Aversion or Indifference; afond one raises his Suspicions, and looks too much like Dissimulationand Artifice. If the Person he loves be cheerful, her Thoughts must beemployed on another; and if sad, she is certainly thinking on himself.In short, there is no Word or Gesture so insignificant, but it gives himnew Hints, feeds his Suspicions, and furnishes him with fresh Matters ofDiscovery: So that if we consider the effects of this Passion, one wouldrather think it proceeded from an inveterate Hatred than an excessiveLove; for certainly none can meet with more Disquietude and Uneasinessthan a suspected Wife, if we except the jealous Husband.

But the great Unhappiness of this Passion is, that it naturally tends toalienate the Affection which it is so solicitous to engross; and thatfor these two Reasons, because it lays too great a Constraint on theWords and Actions of the suspected Person, and at the same time shewsyou have no honourable Opinion of her; both of which are strong Motivesto Aversion.

Nor is this the worst Effect of Jealousy; for it often draws after it amore fatal Train of Consequences, and makes the Person you suspectguilty of the very Crimes you are so much afraid of. It is very naturalfor such who are treated ill and upbraided falsely, to find out anintimate Friend that will hear their Complaints, condole theirSufferings, and endeavour to sooth and asswage their secret Resentments.Besides, Jealousy puts a Woman often in Mind of an ill Thing that shewould not otherwise perhaps have thought of, and fills her Imaginationwith such an unlucky Idea, as in Time grows familiar, excites Desire,and loses all the Shame and Horror which might at first attend it. Noris it a Wonder if she who suffers wrongfully in a Man's Opinion of her,and has therefore nothing to forfeit in his Esteem, resolves to give himreason for his Suspicions, and to enjoy the Pleasure of the Crime, sinceshe must undergo the Ignominy. Such probably were the Considerationsthat directed the wise Man in his Advice to Husbands; _Be not jealousover the Wife of thy Bosom, and teach her not an evil Lesson against thyself._ Ecclus. [3]

And here, among the other Torments which this Passion produces, we mayusually observe that none are greater Mourners than jealous Men, whenthe Person [who [4]] provoked their Jealousy is taken from them. Then itis that their Love breaks out furiously, and throws off all the Mixturesof Suspicion [which [5]] choaked and smothered it before. The beautifulParts of the Character rise uppermost in the jealous Husband's Memory,and upbraid him with the ill Usage of so divine a Creature as was oncein his Possession; whilst all the little Imperfections, that were[before [6]] so uneasie to him, wear off from his Remembrance, and shewthemselves no more.

We may see by what has been said, that Jealousy takes the deepest Rootin Men of amorous Dispositions; and of these we may find three Kinds whoare most over-run with it.

The First are those who are conscious to themselves of an Infirmity,whether it be Weakness, Old Age, Deformity, Ignorance, or the like.These Men are so well acquainted with the unamiable Part of themselves,that they have not the Confidence to think they are really beloved; andare so distrustful of their own Merits, that all Fondness towards themputs them out of Countenance, and looks like a Jest upon their Persons.They grow suspicious on their first looking in a Glass, and are stungwith Jealousy at the sight of a Wrinkle. A handsome Fellow immediatelyalarms them, and every thing that looks young or gay turns theirthoughts upon their Wives.

A Second Sort of Men, who are most liable to this Passion, are those ofcunning, wary, and distrustful Tempers. It is a Fault very justly foundin Histories composed by Politicians, that they leave nothing to Chanceor Humour, but are still for deriving every Action from some Plot andContrivance, for drawing up a perpetual Scheme of Causes and Events, andpreserving a constant Correspondence between the Camp and theCouncil-Table. And thus it happens in the Affairs of Love with Men oftoo refined a Thought. They put a Construction on a Look, and find out aDesign in a Smile; they give new Senses and Significations to Words andActions; and are ever tormenting themselves with Fancies of their ownraising: They generally act in a Disguise themselves, and thereforemistake all outward Shows and Appearances for Hypocrisy in others; sothat I believe no Men see less of the Truth and Reality of Things, thanthese great Refiners upon Incidents, [who [7]] are so wonderfully subtleand overwise in their Conceptions.

Now what these Men fancy they know of Women by Reflection, your lewd andvicious Men believe they have learned by Experience. They have seen thepoor Husband so misled by Tricks and Artifices, and in the midst of hisEnquiries so lost and bewilder'd in a crooked Intreague, that they stillsuspect an Under-Plot in every female Action; and especially where theysee any Resemblance in the Behaviour of two Persons, are apt to fancy itproceeds from the same Design in both. These Men therefore bear hardupon the suspected Party, pursue her close through all her Turnings andWindings, and are too well acquainted with the Chace, to be slung off byany false Steps or Doubles: Besides, their Acquaintance and Conversationhas lain wholly among the vicious Part of Womankind, and therefore it isno Wonder they censure all alike, and look upon the whole Sex as aSpecies of Impostors. But if, notwithstanding their private Experience,they can get over these Prejudices, and entertain a favourable Opinionof some _Women_; yet their own loose Desires will stir up new Suspicionsfrom another Side, and make them believe all _Men_ subject to the sameInclinations with themselves.

Whether these or other Motives are most predominant, we learn from themodern Histories of _America_, as well as from our own Experience inthis Part of the World, that Jealousy is no Northern Passion, but ragesmost in those Nations that lie nearest the Influence of the Sun. It is aMisfortune for a Woman to be born between the Tropicks; for there liethe hottest Regions of Jealousy, which as you come Northward cools allalong with the Climate, till you scarce meet with any thing like it inthe Polar Circle. Our own Nation is very temperately situated in thisrespect; and if we meet with some few disordered with the Violence ofthis Passion, they are not the proper Growth of our Country, but aremany Degrees nearer the Sun in their Constitutions than in theirClimate.

After this frightful Account of Jealousy, and the Persons [who [8]] aremost subject to it, it will be but fair to shew by what means thePassion may be best allay'd, and those who are possessed with it set atEase. Other Faults indeed are not under the Wife's Jurisdiction, andshould, if possible, escape her Observation; but Jealousy calls upon herparticularly for its Cure, and deserves all her Art and Application inthe Attempt: Besides, she has this for her Encouragement, that herEndeavours will be always pleasing, and that she will still find theAffection of her Husband rising towards her in proportion as his Doubtsand Suspicions vanish; for, as we have seen all along, there is so greata Mixture of Love in Jealousy as is well worth separating. But thisshall be the Subject of another Paper.

L.

[Footnote 1: 'Miscellanies' by the late lord Marquis of Halifax (GeorgeSaville, who died in 1695), 1704, pp. 18-31.]

[Footnote 2:

'When you are in company with that Soldier, behave as if you were absent: but continue to love me by Day and by Night: want me; dream of me; expect me; think of me; wish for me; delight in me: be wholly with me: in short, be my very Soul, as I am yours.']

[Footnote 3: 'Ecclus'. ix. I.]

[Footnote 4: that]

[Footnote 5: that]

[Footnote 6: formerly]

[Footnote 7: that]

[Footnote 8: that]

* * * * *

No. 171. Saturday, Sept. 15, 1711. Addison.

'Credula res amor est ...'

Ovid. Met.

Having in my Yesterday's Paper discovered the Nature of Jealousie, andpointed out the Persons who are most subject to it, I must here apply myself to my fair Correspondents, who desire to live well with a JealousHusband, and to ease his Mind of its unjust Suspicions.

The first Rule I shall propose to be observed is, that you never seem todislike in another what the Jealous Man is himself guilty of, or toadmire any thing in which he himself does not excel. A Jealous Man isvery quick in his Applications, he knows how to find a double Edge in anInvective, and to draw a Satyr on himself out of a Panegyrick onanother. He does not trouble himself to consider the Person, but todirect the Character; and is secretly pleased or confounded as he findsmore or less of himself in it. The Commendation of any thing in another,stirs up his Jealousy, as it shews you have a Value for others, besideshimself; but the Commendation of that which he himself wants, inflameshim more, as it shews that in some Respects you prefer others beforehim. Jealousie is admirably described in this View by _Horace_ in hisOde to _Lydia_ [; [1]]